


You Are Sleeping, You Do Not Want To Believe

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: M/M, Pic-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been so sure he had himself all figured out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Sleeping, You Do Not Want To Believe

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Never happened. All slander and lies.  
>  **A/N:** Yet another pic-fic. This one was inspired by the photo at the end.  
>  Edit: Also, I think this is the worst case of indecision over a title I've ever had. This one is of course taken from _Rubber Ring_ by The Smiths.

Morrissey was wandering around the studio in search of Johnny. He had a mission for him. Their photographer had this idea for a solo photo shoot for Morrissey and Morrissey had an idea as well. Now, if he could only find Johnny to help him get this idea on... not so much paper as flesh. Morrissey's flesh, to be specific. To be even more specific, his stomach.

It was only that Johnny was nowhere to be found.

Morrissey did find Mike, smoking a cigarette in the studio's doorway. Andy was in their dressing room, reading a book (Morrissey blinked in surprise at that, decidedly unaccustomed to such a sight. Though to be fair, he never paid much attention to what Andy was doing in his sat-and-wait-around time). And Johnny seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Well now, Morrissey frowned and then sighed resignedly. Andy would have to do. Mike was a little more likely to laugh in his face and besides, he had messy handwriting.

"Andy." Morrissey stood before the bassist. He was glad their dressing room was otherwise empty. "I've got a job for you."

Andy raised his eyebrows in surprise. This wasn't something he had much experience in hearing, especially from Moz.

"Yeah?" he asked with a tentative smile, putting his book down.

And Morrissey suddenly couldn't stop himself from having a bit of fun. Handing Andy the marker pen he was carrying around for the purpose of making his idea reality, he said, looking down straight into the other man's eyes:

"Initiate me."

Andy fumbled with the marker, nearly dropping it.

"Wh-what?" he stammered, eyes round with shock. "But I... You... What?"

Morrissey grinned and then laughed. "Made you speechless."

Andy was looking up with disbelief, but finally snorted with laughter himself.

"You fucker." He smacked Morrissey's hip.

"Not like it's that hard anyway," he added in a murmur. "You make me speechless on a daily basis."

"Oh really?" Morrissey smiled, pleased. "That's nice to hear."

Andy only shook his head.

"All right, what d'you want?"

Morrissey, still smiling, nodded at the marker Andy was holding.

"Initiate me," he said, taking off his T-shirt. "Write that here." He indicated the general vicinity of his belly button.

Andy looked at the area in question. It was right in front of his nose too, since he was sitting down. He bit his lip, unsure.

"Initiate me? Really?" He looked up.

"Yes, really." Morrissey nearly rolled his eyes. "Block letters, please." He clasped his hands behind his back. "And do try to make it symmetrical."

"Bloody bossy-boots," Andy muttered under his breath. "All right, come here."

He sat forward a little and spread his legs to make room for Morrissey to step between them. Which the singer dutifully did.

Andy uncapped the marker, putting the cap on the couch beside him. Faced with Morrissey's bare stomach, he felt unsure all over again. And a bit awkward. What should he do with his other hand? Was Morrissey going to notice if Andy held his breath? Were his palms starting to sweat?

He blinked, frowning. What the fuck was that? why should he hold his breath anyway? He exhaled heavily, scoffing silently at himself.

Still staring at Morrissey's belly, Andy didn't notice the surprised look on Morrissey's face as he felt Andy's breath on his skin. It was an odd sensation, but not unpleasant. Tickled a bit.

"Right," Andy muttered and got to work.

He rested his left hand on Morrissey's hip, finally deciding he'd be more comfortable this way. He was a little distracted by how low Morrissey's trousers were riding on his hips. An inch lower and they'd fall off his skinny arse. Andy's fingers were spread over Morrissey's hipbone and he was barely touching the fabric.

Andy was suddenly gripped by a disconcerting thought of whether or not Mozzer wore underwear. Fuck, he had to! Even just to spare them both the mammoth embarrassment in case those trousers did fall off.

So yeah, he probably did.

Andy decided that far better than letting his thoughts go into such strange places was to focus on the writing.

Morrissey, meanwhile, watched Andy working from above. He noticed Andy made his navel a dot above the third "i". He smiled, delighted at the humour. He was a bit surprised when Andy gripped his hip harder for a moment, but almost as soon as he did, he relaxed his fingers again.

Morrissey lifted an eyebrow. Just what was going through Mr Rourke's head?

Even though he had no hope of knowing, Morrissey was helpless to stop his own mind from wandering. He imagined Andy's stronger grip as he leant even closer to Morrissey's belly. Morrissey could feel Andy's breath warming his skin.

And then Andy would kiss him. Right there, to the left and below his belly button. A wet hungry kiss, not in the slightest bit unsure, and instead taking, claiming him.

And then another, slightly lower, Andy's mouth sucking on his skin, leaving a faint mark of a love bite.

Morrissey took a shallow breath, imagining Andy would look up at him then, his lips still touching Morrissey's skin and he'd smile (Morrissey had always secretly loved that smile).

And then Andy would nuzzle the light fur on Morrissey's belly, lick it.

Morrissey took another shallow breath and swallowed. He wanted to bury his fingers in Andy's hair. He wouldn't push his head lower, wouldn't try to direct him in any way. He'd only... stroke him, run his fingers through the blond strands of Andy's hair, trace the rim of one shapely ear as Andy licked lower and lower, finally stopping at the waistband of Morrissey's trousers. He'd look at Morrissey again, a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes, before untying the drawstring and pulling those trousers two inches down. And going no further.

Morrissey would bite his lip, frustrated, but he'd love this slow, teasing exploration. He wouldn't rush it for the world, especially since now Andy would be kissing and licking the newly exposed skin and then he'd bury his nose in the thicker hair down there.

And then he'd finally, _finally_ , pull Morrissey's trousers completely off and move his hand to where Morrissey needed it the most, pressing just so and curling his fingers...

"Done."

"Huh?" Morrissey started, suddenly jolted back to reality.

He blinked rapidly, realising with horror that any second now his loose trousers weren't going to be enough to hide the effects his fantasy had on him.

Quick, think of something! Morrissey's mind screamed at him.

Naked Margaret Thatcher taking a shower with Prince Charles in a leather getup!

Oh yes, good, Morrissey sighed with relief as he felt his body calm down and lose all will to be frisky.

"Are you okay?"

Morrissey looked down. Andy was looking up at him with a worried frown.

"Of course I am," Morrissey quickly replied and shifted his gaze to look at Andy's handiwork rather than the man himself. That way lay madness.

"Oh, nice." He smiled fleetingly at the writing on his skin. "Thanks, Andy."

He took a step back and hastily put his T-shirt back on. He couldn't linger here, not after what had just happened.

"Uh, you're welcome." Andy was looking at him like he wanted to say something else.

Clearly Morrissey had to run before it was too late.

"I'll go and ask the photographer if he's ready," Morrissey spoke over his shoulder, heading for the door.

Outside the dressing room, he stopped for a moment and rested his forehead against the wall.

Mother of God, what _was_ he thinking? And why _Andy_ of all people? He had been so sure he had himself all figured out... All Morrissey really wanted to do then was to barricade himself at home and analyse his bizarre psychosexual response to his own bassist to death. Or at least till tomorrow. Or maybe sometime into the next week.

No such luxury, though. They had _obligations_. Morrissey curled his lip as if the word tasted bad in his mouth.

He had to get a grip on himself.

He turned and went to look for their photographer. Time to lock it all up and hope he could control himself in the future.

Morrissey had an awful feeling that from now on his life was going to be a nightmare.


End file.
